Comrades
by Vermilion Angel
Summary: What do you get when you cross two CI5 men, two Russians, and a caravan?


Disclaimer: Shocked as you maybe, I don't own the Professionals, even more upsettingly I don't make any money either.

Thanks e-pony for making this worth reading.

**Comrades**

By Vermilioncola

**Chapter One: A Sardine Tin in Hampshire**

"Hayling Island," Bodie said the words slowly, as if making sure he was reading it right. "Hayling Island… Hampshire."

"Yes, 3.7," Cowley replied wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "Hayling Island."

"The chosen holiday spot for the Surrey middle-class," Bodie continued, the distaste obvious in his voice.

"Yes, 3.7," the controller repeated testily. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"But… you're sending me and Doyle to –"

"Yes, Bodie! For the final time, you're going to Hayling Island, and you're going to damn well like it."

Doyle cringed inwardly. Bodie's expression had not changed from "horrified at the prospect," and Cowley looked like he might kill either of them at any moment. It was safe to say neither was best pleased.

"In a caravan?" Bodie added incredulously, and Doyle winced.

Cowley took a deep, calming breath, "Yes, Bodie, in a caravan. You'll be on a site called Fleet Farm. Everything's been arranged. You'll proceed there directly after this briefing."

"But, sir –" Bodie began to protest, and his partner wished he'd chosen a seat closer to the door.

"No buts, 3.7! That's an order."

Bodie clamped his mouth shut and glared at the file in his hand with such intensity that Doyle wondered if it would burst into flame.

"A very prominent member of the KGB is arriving there in two days, ostensibly for a holiday. But I still want you to watch him. He'll be staying in a cottage close to where you're stationed. You will monitor his movements, but under **no circumstances **are you to make contact. Understand?" The controller leant forward and pointed a warning finger at his men.

Both agents nodded, and Cowley relaxed back into his seat. "Good. Everything else is in that file. You're dismissed." He waved his hand, and the two men stood up as if to leave.

Then, suddenly, Bodie leant forward across the desk. "Please, sir… There's this girl, sir…"

Cowley raised an eyebrow. "There's _always _a girl, 3.7."

"But this one's different, sir. I've been planning this trip for weeks!"

Cowley studied the young man for a moment. "When were you due to go?"

"Tomorrow, sir." Bodie schooled his face into an expression somewhere between sad and hopeful. Now, if only the Old Man fell for it….

"Och! I'm sorry, but you're the only ones I can send."

Bodie did his level best to look crushed, and he apparently did a good job, because the controller shook his head sympathetically. "You may have three days off at the end of this operation. Perhaps this girl will reschedule."

Doyle had to work very hard not to let his jaw drop. He was positive there was no way he'd get away with that sort of behaviour.

Bodie glanced at his partner and then back to Cowley. "And what about Doyle, sir?"

"What about him?" Cowley asked, staring at Doyle. "I suppose you want three days off, too?"

"I-I… wouldn't mind, sir." Doyle said, startled.

"All right. But you'll both be back here **on time** when your leave is over. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir," Bodie said gravely, surreptitiously nudging Doyle with an elbow to get him moving. "Thank you, sir."

"Get out of here," Cowley replied abruptly. He waited for the door to shut before chuckling to himself. He had been intending to offer three days off all along, but it had been worth the deception just to see the look of utter shock on Doyle's face. He poured himself a congratulatory Scotch and toasted the door.

Doyle was still partially shell-shocked as the two agents drove down to the coast. Three days off in the middle of August was no mean feat, and he wasn't quite how Bodie had managed it – for both of them, no less.

"It's blatant favouritism; that's what it is!" he said suddenly, startling Bodie.

"Eh? What is?" Bodie glanced at his partner and then went back to concentrating on the road.

They had reached Hampshire, and the sky blazed bright blue over vivid green hills. The scenery was beautiful, and Doyle watched it roll past with a half-smile on his lips whilst pondering two of life's great mysteries: Bodie and George Cowley. He looked over at his partner lazily. "The Old Man would never give me three days off. Not if I went in there with half an arm missing and an axe sticking out me 'ead."

"Course he would," Bodie replied, dangling one hand out the open window as they cruised along the motorway. "He likes _you_."

Doyle frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Come on, sunshine. You're his blue-eyed boy," Bodie said, bringing in his hand to shift gears. "He'd give you three days, no questions asked. Probably more if you wanted."

Doyle pulled a face. "I don't think so. You're the one who gets away with blue-bleedin' murder, mate."

"You've got to be kidding?" Bodie chuckled. "I annoy him almost as much as I annoy you." He shot a quick grin at his partner. "Besides, he didn't let me off this assignment, did he?"

"Is she really 'different,' this one, then?" Doyle asked, interested.

Bodie snorted, "If by 'different' you mean has she got a lively imagination in bed… then, yeah, definitely 'different.'"

"So not serious, then?"

Bodie smirked. "Hardly. I think she's holding out for a doctor."

Doyle quirked a grin, then looked down at the file on his lap. "Want to hear about this bloke we're eyeballing?"

"Oh, go on then," Bodie said, heaving an overly dramatic sigh.

"Anatoly Evgenovitch Nikitin," Doyle read. He slid out a picture and studied it. The man had a heavy, square face and light brown hair falling over serious brown eyes. "Grew up in a small port town on the northern coast, picked up by the KGB at age fifteen, sent to Oxford where he took languages… a former professional ice-skater."

"Professional ice-skater?" Bodie repeated dubiously.

"Have to be fit to be a pro skater," Doyle replied with authority. "'Specially the legs."

"Liftin' them birds above his head…" Bodie said. "Yeah, all right. I concede he'd have to be fit, but it seems like an odd career change."

"Yeah." Doyle flicked to the next page. "Hmm… can you skate, Bodie?"

Bodie shook his head. "Nope. Never tried it."

"But you can you swim all right."

"Yeah, but I fail to see what that has to do with anything."

"Oh, well, it says here he's a champion swimmer, too."

"Oh, I see." Bodie lifted an eyebrow. "Something to do when the lake thaws out."

"Yeah, I guess so. Says he was considered for the Olympics but had an injury. Shortly afterwards he joined the KGB."

"Uh-huh. So what brings him to sunny Hampshire and not some swanky little dacha?"

"I dunno. I suppose that's what we're here to find out." Doyle closed the file. "You know what? I don't think this trip'll be half-bad, y'know?"

"No?"

"Think about it: warm sunshine, fish and chips on the beach, the funfair, candyfloss, ice cream melting all over your best shoes. It'll be just like being a kid again."

Bodie made a noncommittal noise, and Doyle frowned at him. "Oh, don't tell me you never went to the beach as a kid?"

"I used to go down the docks a lot. That count?"

"So where'd you go on holiday then?" Doyle asked.

"We… didn't really go in for that." Bodie shrugged.

"Oh…"

"Me gran took me to the Lake District once," Bodie continued. "I think…"

"Whereabouts?" Doyle said, twisting a little in his seat to see his partner's face.

"Windermere, as far as I recall. Wasn't allowed an ice cream though. Gran thought I was too chubby."

Doyle burst out laughing, and Bodie shot him a pained look. "Oh, shut up," he said. "Bet you looked just like Bambi when you were little: big eyes, skinny legs… Oh, wait –"

"Ha-ha," Doyle interrupted, "but unfortunately you _do_ have a point."

"Who'd have thought?" Bodie said. "Hey, there's an exit coming up."

Doyle pulled a map out from under the folder. "Keep going. Ours isn't for ages."

Bodie sighed quietly and changed lanes. "You know, maybe you're right. This could be a good laugh."

Doyle nodded and slid down a little further in his seat. "I wonder what this caravan's like, then?"

x x x

The caravan was number 42, a white metal box with a red stripe running around the middle. It backed onto a low hedge, beyond which was a field dotted with grazing horses. Because the unit was stationary, it was fully plumbed in, with electricity and a gas stove. The interior smelled slightly musty and was depressingly small. Every sound echoed twice as loud through the thin walls.

"Well, this is cosy," Bodie observed, dumping his bags on one of the long seats and having a look around. "Fridge, freezer, kettle." He opened one of the cupboards. "Plates, spiders… all the mod cons, really."

Doyle looked through one of the two doorways behind Bodie. "Dibs on that one," Doyle said, pointing into the small room, which barely accommodated a double bed and a slim wardrobe.

"Hey," Bodie protested, "no fair!"

Doyle shrugged. "There's another room, albeit one with the smallest bunk-beds in the world."

Bodie scowled at him. "Funny…"

"Oh, come on. It'll just be like being on a ship." Doyle grinned broadly at the death-glare his partner was directing towards him and held up both hands. "Joke." He moved over to the tiny dining table, which was flanked by two bench-seats, and patted the top. "This turns into a bed, as well."

Bodie looked suspicious. "Yeah?"

"Honest Injun. Give me a hand, and I'll show you."

Bodie braced the table while Doyle collapsed the legs and then lowered the tabletop to sit snugly between the two seats. "There. Then you just take the cushions off the seats over there and voila, a bed."

"How did you know that?" Bodie asked, helping reassemble the table. "You've been in one of these before, haven't you?"

"Yeah. Not here though," Doyle said. "Up north. Bloody cold, it was."

"Bet this is noisy when it rains," Bodie said, tapping the thin walls.

"These things are noisy when you do anything," Doyle replied. "Well, what say we take a look around the island and see what's happening?"

Bodie nodded, twirling the car-keys around his finger. "I noticed a pub on the way in. Fancy an ale and maybe a spot of dinner, old chap?" he said, affecting the air of a Victorian gentleman.

"Delighted, old man," Doyle replied. "Shall we?" He gestured grandly towards the door.

"After you, I insist." Bodie ushered Doyle out and then locked up behind them. "A stroll, or shall we take the car?"

"We'll walk. It's only ten minutes. Then, if we find ourselves a little worse for wear..."

"Ah-ha!" Bodie exclaimed, hopping down the few metal steps that led to the door. "I like your thinking, Raymond, old son." He walked out into the road and glanced around. "It's so _quiet_," he observed with some disbelief.

"I know. Brilliant, eh?" Doyle said, grinning.

"I don't know about that, mate," Bodie replied, walking towards the front gate of the caravan park. "Doesn't it feel a little… I dunno, eerie?"

Doyle rolled his eyes and slapped his partner playfully on the back. "Don't worry, Bodie. I'll protect you from the retirees and the middle-classes."

Bodie shoved him away lightly. "Give over."

The partners were just approaching the stables near the front gate when Doyle suddenly stopped. "Hang about, Bodie. I'm going to get my jacket."

Bodie looked incredulous. "Your jacket? It's got to be at least seventy out here."

"But it might not be later. I'll only be a minute."

"Whatever." Bodie tossed Doyle the caravan keys. He shook his head as his partner strolled casually back.

The unexpected sound of hooves on the pavement behind him made Bodie turn. A young woman was leading a black horse out of the small stables. She smiled at him cheerfully, and he wandered over.

"Hi," she said, straightening the horse's reins.

"Hello," Bodie replied. "Beautiful animal." He nodded at the horse. "Yours?"

"Yep. Trained him up myself." She patted the animal's flank. "On holiday?"

"Yeah. Me and my… brother." He nodded back over his shoulder. "Used to come here as kids."

"You don't look much alike," the woman observed.

"You know, everyone says that." Bodie shrugged. "He takes after mum, you see."

"And you take after your dad?"

"Exactly. Handsome sod that he was." He grinned rakishly. "So you live here or…"

"No, we're just here for a few weeks," the woman said, stroking the horse affectionately. "Just down the road, in fact."

"A cottage or a caravan?"

"Oh, a cottage. Can't stand those little tin boxes on stilts." She smiled. "But I spend most of my time riding."

Bodie bit back a crude remark. "Uh, what did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't," she said, "and it's Cindy."

"Cindy…" Bodie nodded. "Well, it's a pleasure."

"And what am I going to call you?"

"Bodie," he replied, stepping back as she got onto the horse.

"Well, then, I suppose I'll see you around." The woman nudged the horse with her heels and it started walking.

"Definitely," Bodie agreed. "Absolutely…"

"Absolutely what?" Doyle said, appearing at Bodie's elbow and following his gaze to the woman on the horse. "Oh, I see. Getting settled are you?"

Bodie grinned at him. "What can I say? I'm naturally irresistible."

"To her or the horse?" Doyle replied. He walked past Bodie towards the gate. "Come on, Casanova, before I die of thirst."

**Chapter Two: Of Subterfuge and Submarines**

The Yew Tree was a large, old building at the intersection of the main road and the less-travelled byway that led to the caravan site. The pub boasted a large beer garden with tables, a small aviary, and a trio of farm animals in a pen. A pig, a goat and a sheep lived harmoniously amongst the drinkers who preferred to get pissed "al fresco."

Inside, the place was much more interesting. From the ceiling hung old faming implements. Scythes, sickles and rakes cluttered the space, rusted beyond use but still appearing slightly sinister. On the walls was a collection of nostalgic tat: shelves crammed with memorial tankards, an assortment of fading Victorian photographs in heavy wooden frames, stuffed animal heads and, of course, more farming equipment. The air was stale with the odour of smoke and old beer.

The two agents looked about and quickly decided they would prefer to dine with the pig. They picked a table underneath the eponymous yew, settling in with two glasses of beer and two plates with burgers and chips.

Bodie watched the pig meandering about its pen and took a gulp his beer, savouring the bitter taste as it slid down his throat. "I bet life would be brilliant to be that pig," he observed thoughtfully. "Lying about all day, eating whatever you wanted, having your every need catered to… not a care in the world."

"Until someone fancied a bacon sarnie," Doyle said with a smirk.

Bodie cast him a level gaze. "Don't be so cynical. They're not going to kill that pig. It's a mascot."

"Maybe. Or he could be lunch."

Bodie chose to ignore his partner this time.

"Our Russian ice-skater's pad should be around here somewhere," Doyle said, shifting around so he could see the road. "Maybe we should check it out before he arrives?"

"What? Now?"

"When it gets darker."

Bodie looked up at the sky speculatively. "We've got a few hours then."

Doyle nodded. "We could get the car and see what else there is to do here."

"Not much, I bet."

"Oh, I dunno… penny arcades, a funfair."

Bodie gazed at his friend sceptically. "We're not teenagers any more, Ray."

"So? You're never too old for the funfair," Doyle replied, with a boyish grin.

Bodie had the sneaking suspicion that Doyle was enjoying this re-living of his childhood. "Whatever you say, sunshine," he said airily, finishing off his pint with a satisfied sigh. "Do you think they'll have candy-floss?"

"Probably." Doyle pushed himself up from the table and gathered the plates and glasses.

"They have a girl to do that, y'know?" Bodie said.

"I know; I saw her." There was a definite glint in Doyle's eye.

Bodie shook his head. He decided to make use of the facilities while his partner was flirting and followed Doyle inside the pub.

x x x

Anatoly Evgenovitch Nikitin was using slightly different facilities on board the cruise-liner making its way to Portsmouth. He was taking a leisurely swim up and down the swimming pool on the main deck, enjoying the sun on his back and the cool water flowing over his body. He swam to the edge and pulled himself out, shaking the water out of his hair before removing his goggles. He padded wetly over to a sun lounger and flopped down on it with a contented sigh. Shutting his eyes, he leant his head back and smiled to himself.

A blond man wearing a pair of black aviators, a yellow shirt and jeans was lying on the lounger beside Anatoly. He looked over and smiled at his companion. "You should be more careful, Anachka. Someone might think you're enjoying yourself." He spoke English with only a slight accent, having been schooled carefully to draw as little attention as possible.

Anatoly laughed throatily. "We wouldn't want that, tovarisch."

"When will we be arriving in Portsmouth?"

"Tomorrow morning. There will be a car waiting."

"And we are going to this… place?" The disdain in the blond man's voice was obvious.

Anatoly sighed, wiping a droplet of water from his nose, "Because no one will take a second look there. Trust, tovarisch, trust."

The other man snorted in derision. "Da, trust. How many English agents are we expecting?"

"Does it matter?" Anatoly replied. "They will see nothing but a man on his holidays."

"Two men. Will that not be suspicious?"

"Perhaps. But they will be too polite to ask, because they are… British."

His friend regarded him with a half-amused expression. "I think you take pleasure in ruffling the feathers of the English."

"Perhaps," Anatoly said, smiling. "I shall enjoy this 'holiday' very much." He laughed again and then stood up to walk towards the pool. Replacing his goggles, he dove back into the water.

x x x

The sun was setting, casting a golden haze over Hayling Island and turning the sky blood red. The birds were in full chorus, and aside from the gentle rush and sigh of the sea in the distance, there were no other sounds.

The two CI5 men had scaled the wall at the back of their target's holiday cottage and were now standing in the shadowed garden, with the smell of earth and freshly cut grass mingling around them. Doyle walked to the back of the house and contemplated the patio furniture and then the kitchen door. All of the windows were dark, and there had been no sign of life since the partners had begun their watch an hour earlier.

"Nice little place," Doyle whispered, "although it seems a bit bourgeois for the KGB."

"I'd have thought this sort of place would be up their street? The simple dwellings of the rustic proletariat," Bodie replied, walking up to the kitchen door and giving it an experimental rattle.

"The rustic proletariat?" Doyle said dubiously. He moved to his partner's side and switched on a thin torch. The light was just enough to illuminate the lock, which Bodie was jimmying with a lock pick. "This isn't rustic. Pretend rustic, maybe, and definitely not the dwelling of the proletariat."

Bodie shrugged. "So maybe he isn't a very good communist?"

"When are they ever?" Doyle replied, gazing around the garden.

"Here, keep that still will you?" Bodie protested. "It's hard enough without you jiggling the torch about."

"Don't know why we're bothering, anyway. There's no one overlooking," Doyle said. "Could just use the regular torch."

"Never underestimate keen-eyed old biddies with a fully paid-up membership in the neighbourhood watch, Doyle."

"Come a-cropper before, have you?"

"Once or twice," Bodie said. The lock clicked open, and he stood up, stretching. "Mostly for leaving via the back door in the early hours, y'know?"

"Oh, I see. Just as their husbands were coming in the front?"

Bodie shook his head and opened the door. "Their dads, maybe. I was only a nipper."

"Back in the day, huh?"

"Yeah, something like that. Mum was already too drunk to notice us coming back at seven in the morning." Bodie stepped into the dark kitchen, leaving his partner silent on the patio.

For Doyle, it was always these moments of sudden candidness that surprised him most about his partner. He never questioned whether what he learned was true. In fact, he never asked any questions at all, because Bodie wouldn't allow for it. With a silent shrug, Doyle followed his friend into the kitchen.

x x x

Shipboard, Anatoly was lying in his cabin, reading _Anna Karenina_ and listening to the rolling waves outside. There was a knock on the door, and he placed the book on his chest. "Yes?"

"It's me," the voice of his companion said from beyond the door.

"Come in. It's not locked."

The other man walked in, looking sour. "You should keep your door locked at all times." He shut the door and locked it to punctuate his point.

"Relax, Konstantin," Anatoly said, lapsing into Russian. "You should learn to enjoy yourself."

"I will enjoy myself when we are back in Moscow," Konstantin replied frostily. He settled into a desk-side chair. "You know it's time?"

"Yes, turn it on," Anatoly replied, waving imperiously at a small radio on the desk.

Konstantin withdrew a notepad from his pocket and set it on the desktop. Then, he switched on the radio and carefully tuned it in until he heard a female voice through the static. The tone was flat and almost mechanical, as the unseen woman read out a list of numbers.

"One… one… one," the voice repeated.

Both men in the room were silent, intent on the voice and the numbers.

"Two… two… two. Three… three… three."

"We're lucky, it hasn't started," Anatoly said.

Konstantin shushed him sharply. After a moment, the woman's voice began to recite a long list of seemingly random numbers. Konstantin noted them down carefully, while Anatoly went back to his book. After an hour, Konstantin shut off the radio. "There is nothing for us," he said dejectedly.

"Perhaps you were hoping to be recalled? I told you, Kostya; this is a special assignment." Anatoly dropped his book to the floor and grinned suddenly. "We will do something to make you feel at home, yes?" He got up and opened a drawer, pulling out a half-bottle of vodka. "We will have some fun."

Konstantin eyed the bottle and then his companion. He smiled resignedly. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

Anatoly nodded and poured out two cups, handing one to Konstantin. "I am always right, my friend, always."

x x x

The cottage had offered the agents no surprises. It was an average holiday home, with three bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen and a living room. For a moment, the pair had considered bugging the place, but then decided the KGB men would find any devices instantly. So, after two hours of careful searching, they snuck back out and over the wall, landing silently in a small lane running along the back. The moon was rising over the trees, bathing the path in misty silver light just bright enough to see by.

"I don't know what we expected to find," Doyle said as they began to walk back to the caravan. "They haven't even arrived yet."

Bodie shrugged. "What do you suppose they're here for?"

"Dunno. A drop? A pickup? A meet?"

"If he was meeting someone, we'd have heard of it, wouldn't we?" Bodie said, plucking a leaf off a tree as they passed it. He rolled the leaf between his fingers and then flicked it at Doyle, who flinched, shoving Bodie lightly away.

"Would we?" Doyle said, also plucking leaves as he walked but keeping them in his hand.

"Well, we knew _he_ was coming here; so surely we'd know if someone else was too."

"Not necessarily," Doyle replied, "but I think it's more likely a pickup or a drop. And it's got to be something important, otherwise why send one of their top guys?"

"What do you suppose is up with the non-contact order then? It can't be that important if we don't want it back."

Doyle shrugged. He was now holding a good handful of leaves, and he deliberately slowed down so that his partner moved ahead.

"What are you –" Bodie began, just as Doyle grabbed the back of his collar and stuffed the leaves down his shirt. "Agh! You bastard!" he exclaimed, swinging round as Doyle bolted past him towards the end of the lane. Bodie gave chase, leaves fluttering out of his shirt in a trail behind him.

x x x

The cruise-liner docked in Portsmouth early the next morning, while the sun was still rising over the city. Anatoly yawned and stretched as he strode down the gangway. Konstantin walked just behind him, lugging two suitcases.

"You are the Olympic athlete; you should be carrying these," Konstantin said grumpily, speaking in English since they were in public.

"You moan like an old woman, Kostya," Anatoly said lightly. He made a sweeping gesture towards the port and took a deep breath. "Ah! The smell of the sea and the city reminds me of home." He laughed loudly and walked off, with Konstantin muttering darkly behind him.

"Do you know what your problem is?" Anatoly said as they manoeuvred through the main doors into customs.

"No, but I'm certain you'll tell me," Konstantin replied tartly.

Anatoly turned and took the larger bag from his friend, who smiled condescendingly at him. "You need to learn to relax," he said sagely. "Now, let us find this car. I'm keen to see this dacha…"

"_Cottage_," Konstantin reminded him sharply.

"Of course. I am sorry," Anatoly replied, not looking sorry at all.

The two Russians continued on that way – Anatoly with breezy enthusiasm and Konstantin with muted frustration – through customs and to their designated car.

The vehicle was an unremarkable, gunmetal-grey Ford, but Konstantin regarded it with obvious suspicion. "Diplomatic number plates?" he said, looking at his friend as if he'd grown an extra head. "I thought we were supposed to be keeping a _low_ profile."

Anatoly patted Konstantin on the back. "Put yourself in the position of the average Englishman. He will have never seen diplomatic plates in his life, and he will certainly not recognise them now nor see them as suspicious. He will simply see a hired car, no doubt like hundreds on the coast on the holidays."

"And the police?"

"On this tiny island? Perhaps they have five or six policemen. Perhaps they will see the diplomatic plates and wonder. But they will take it no further."

"And what of the English agents who will undoubtedly be here?"

Anatoly rolled his eyes and walked to the boot of the car to unlock it. "You are a terrible cynic. I should have brought someone else with more humour."

Konstantin scowled at him, and Anatoly laughed. "I was making a joke, my dear Kostya." He took the other case and put it in the boot. "Now don't sulk. I will buy you breakfast."

Konstantin shook his head and walked around to the passenger side. Anatoly sighed and closed the boot. Once they had both settled into the car, they set off into Portsmouth.

x x x

Doyle woke to the sound of his partner whistling in the shower. He turned over and covered his head with the pillow. He hadn't had a good night's sleep. The birds had been restless outside, with the seagulls waking particularly early to perform a screeching chorus on top of the caravan. Their tiny feet had sounded like drums on the thin, metal roof.

Next, the horses had been let out. For some reason, they had been strangely vocal all morning, neighing and whinnying loudly – seemingly right behind Doyle's head. Even the night had not been all peace and quiet. Two animals had tangled at some point in the dark, their screeches echoing eerily in the stillness.

But the worst part, Doyle stewed, was that he_ knew _Bodie hadn't even noticed the commotion. The irritating sod most likely had slept through it all

Yawning, Doyle walked out into the main room and stretched. He glared as Bodie emerged fully dressed from the bathroom and flashed his partner a quick grin.

"You look awful," Bodie observed, moving to fill up the kettle.

Doyle silently watched him working before squeezing past to sprawl across the benches at the far end with a groan.

"I bet you slept like a bleedin' log, didn't you?" he growled. Bodie cast him a sympathetic glance while putting teabags into two mugs but didn't reply.

The rest of the morning passed in relative silence, broken only by the whistling kettle, the buzz of Doyle's electric razor, and the song of birds on the electricity lines above. At one point, Bodie walked over to a nearby shop, returning with a newspaper and a can of Coke. He gave the paper to Doyle and sat on the steps outside the caravan to enjoy the sunshine.

An elderly couple with a pair of little dogs walked by and gave Bodie a friendly wave. He smiled and raised the can to them in greeting as they tottered off happily. A few minutes later, a trio of small children came riding past on bicycles, followed by a young couple on foot. They all waved, too, and Bodie waved pleasantly back. When they were out of view, he heard one of the children shriek and start to laugh. Shaking his head, he smiled to himself.

The sun was crawling higher, and the air was starting to lose the slight chill of morning. Bodie leant back against the wall of the caravan and took another sip of Coke. When he finished the drink, he climbed back inside, only to find that Doyle had fallen asleep across the bench seats. Thinking quickly, he scribbled a note onto a scrap of paper and balanced it carefully on Doyle's nose. Then, with a smirk, he took the caravan keys and an R/T and set out for a walk around the site.

Doyle woke with a jerk, scrabbling to get the "whatever-it-was" off his face. He frowned at the scrunched scrap of paper in his hand and then relaxed. As he flattened it out, he instantly recognised Bodie's neat handwriting.

"Gone for a walk. Buzz me if there's news," Doyle read out to the empty room. He balled the paper up and threw it to the floor, before settling back and closing his eyes. The air inside the caravan had been slowly heating up, and he could no longer get comfortable. After a moment, his R/T buzzed, and he sat up again to take the call, expecting it to be from Bodie.

"Nine-three to 4.5," the voice on the R/T said.

Doyle raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Four-five to 9.3; come in 9.3."

"I've been tailing Nikitin from Portsmouth. He's just crossed the bridge onto the island, and I've stopped at the Old Ship Inn. He's got a grey Ford, diplomatic plates. You won't miss it. And he's with someone else, some blond bloke. I've taken a picture and will try to get an ID as soon as I get back."

"All right. Anything else we should know?"

"No. I had a quick look in his case as it went through customs. Nothing unusual. No obvious weapons."

"Thanks," Doyle said. "Leave it to us."

"No worries. See you back in London. Nine-three out."

Doyle waited a few seconds before depressing the talk button. "Four-five to 3.7. Tin Box calling the Liverpool Lothario. Oi, Bodie! Put 'er down, mate. We've got enough action headed our way in a grey Ford." He let go of the button and waited again, snickering as he imagined the look on his partner's face as he scrambled for his trousers.

"Put who down?" Bodie replied instead.

"Not with that girl you met yesterday, then? I must say I'm surprised."

"Nah. I'm down by the cove at the other end of the site, near the campers."

"Reliving your days in the scouts, are you?" Doyle replied. But rather than wait for an answer, he continued, "Well, you'd better scout out a route back. Our Russians are here."

"Russians? As in more than one?"

"Yeah, apparently there's some blond bloke with him. They just crossed the bridge onto the island, so they'll be at their cottage soon."

"All right, I'm on my way. Three-seven out."

Doyle put the R/T down and went to pour himself a glass of milk.

x x x

Konstantin was notably unimpressed by his latest accommodations. He begrudgingly followed Anatoly inside the cottage and put down his bag, looking around with a sour expression. "Don't tell me. This… _place_ reminded you of your little house by the sea?" He was free to speak in Russian here and did so gladly.

Anatoly rolled his eyes again. "Kostya…"

"No, no. Don't say it: Relax Kostya. Learn to have fun Kostya. Enjoy yourself Kostya…"

"Kostya, please," Anatoly said soothingly. "You are getting worked up over nothing. What is so bad about this place, really?"

Konstantin sighed, "Nothing; it's nothing." He shrugged. "I just… it's so far from home. You saw that man following us earlier, I suppose? And it is likely there will be more around, watching us."

"When are we not being watched?" Anatoly asked his companion. "What difference does it make whether it's our own people or their people? Besides…" He made an encompassing gesture. "Do you see anyone watching us now?"

Konstantin shrugged again, defeated. "I worry."

"I know," Anatoly replied, "but you mustn't."

Konstantin walked past his friend into the kitchen and looked out of the large windows. "The garden _is_ lovely."

Anatoly grinned. "That's more like it! Concentrate on the positive." He threw an arm across Konstantin's shoulders. "We will accomplish our objective and have a good time as well. All will be fine. You'll see."

Konstantin didn't look entirely convinced, but he smiled weakly anyway. He just hoped that _this_ time Anatoly would be right.

x x x

Bodie was sitting in the gnarled branches of an oak tree not far from the Russians' cottage. He leant back against the trunk, letting a small pair of binoculars hang from the cord around his neck as he ate crisps from a packet between his legs. He had been there since lunchtime, sitting on a cushion he'd "liberated" from the caravan.

The Russian agents hadn't left the house all afternoon; they hadn't had any visitors either. During that time, the wind had picked up, bringing a breath of damp sea air to Bodie in his perch. He had chosen the site carefully, so that when he turned his head, he could watch the silver water between him and Portsmouth.

He loved the sea. Always had done. Every wave seemed to sigh, "freedom." Yet, it didn't call to him as strongly as it once had. He never looked at it longingly anymore, just as he never wistfully followed the vapour trails of aeroplanes across the sky and dreamed of alluring, exotic places. He reached for another crisp but found the bag empty. Balling it up, Bodie shoved the bag into his pocket and took out the R/T instead. "I'm bored."

There was a short silence, followed by a whisper. "Me, too." Doyle was sitting on the opposite side of the house, watching the back.

Bodie shifted slightly in his place. "Battleships?"

There came another brief silence. "Okay."

Bodie pulled a notepad out of his pocket and began sketching out a rough grid. In five minutes, he was finished. Then, he drew in some boats. "Right, ready to go," he told Doyle.

"Two seconds," came the reply.

Shifting slightly to a more comfortable position, Bodie contemplated his grid and then the house. He wondered just what the Russians were getting up to, but decided he wasn't terribly interested at the moment. He sighed and waited for Doyle to finish placing his ships.

x x x

Konstantin walked into the living room of the cottage and sat down heavily on one of the easy chairs. Anatoly was already sprawled across the seat opposite, reading his book. Konstantin glared at him.

"I've found the frequency the agents watching us are using," he said, but his companion didn't answer. "Anachka, are you listening to me?"

"Blah, blah… English agents," Anatoly mumbled. "Do you ever talk about anything else?"

"They are using some sort of code to talk to one another."

"Mm-hmm."

"I wrote it down," Konstantin said seriously. "One of them said a number and a letter, and the other replied with 'hit' or 'miss.'"

"What?" Anatoly replied distractedly, glancing briefly over to his companion. "Leave the agents to their codes and me to my book."

"But what does it mean? We should report this new code to Central."

Anatoly sighed, resting the book on his chest. "Then, report it, but I _beg_ you, leave me to my book."

Konstantin huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "I thought we were here to work? Where is our contact? When will we meet him?"

"Calm yourself, Kostya," Anatoly said smoothly. "Our contact arrives by boat tomorrow morning. And we, my friend, will disappear under the very noses of the English agents."

Konstantin frowned. "You wanted the agents here."

"Yes," Anatoly replied, "and we will baffle them."

"How?"

Anatoly smirked. "I have it all worked out, my friend. Do not worry yourself."

Konstantin sighed, "Fine. I have trusted you until now." He stood and walked back towards the kitchen, contemplating the new code he'd overheard. He decided to leave it for the night and to enjoy an evening nightcap.

x x x

Doyle scowled and raised the R/T to his mouth. "You sunk my submarine, you bastard." He heard his partner chuckle on the other end, then spotted a light come on in the kitchen of the cottage they were watching. "Someone's making some dinner. Looks like the blond."

"Oh," Bodie replied blandly. "Thrilling, that is. I'll have to make a note in my diary."

"'M just saying." Doyle said.

"Yeah, I know. Sun's going down, mate."

Doyle raised an eyebrow. "Oh, thank God for that. I thought I was going blind."

"It's getting cold here, too."

"You want to call it a night, don't you?"

"They're more likely to make a move at night," Bodie said, but without conviction.

Doyle sighed. "Sod it. If they make a move, we'll say we lost them somewhere in the dark. Cowley won't like it, but there's not much he can do about it. Besides, I'm starving."

"His own fault for not sending any cover for us."

"Precisely," Doyle agreed. "How you getting out of that tree?"

"Well… it's a technique I like to call jumping."

"You can't jump out of that tree, Bodie. You'll break your neck!"

"Oh, come on. It's not that high."

"It's got to be at least fifteen feet. Don't be a moron."

"I've got this cushion…" Bodie began.

"Fine. Break both your legs, but I'm not calling you a bleedin' ambulance," Doyle said indignantly. He paused before adding, "You're not _actually_ going to jump, are you?"

"Aw, mate, I never knew you cared!" Bodie said in his most patronising tone.

"Bog off," Doyle replied.

"Do you really think I'm that thick?"

"Yes," Doyle said.

"Charming," said Bodie, only this time he wasn't on the R/T but rather walking towards he spot where Doyle was hiding.

"Bloody hell!" Doyle exclaimed. "That was quick."

"I climbed down ten minutes ago, mate," Bodie said simply. "Pub?"

"Pub," Doyle agreed, extracting himself from the bushes to join his partner.

x x x

Konstantin couldn't stand being cooped up in the little cottage any longer. He put on a light coat and stepped out into the mild night air, heading for the Yew Tree. When he arrived, he found only a handful of people in the bar, and he slid onto a stool beside a dark-haired young man as he ordered a drink. He completely missed the startled expression that crossed the other man's face when he glanced over.

After a while, the man's curly haired friend returned from the toilets and sat on the other side of him. Again, Konstantin missed their shared look. He was more interested in the alcohol than in gossip.

"All right, mate?" the dark-haired man said cheerfully, ignoring the shocked glance from his friend.

Konstantin looked up and smiled thinly. "Hello."

"You on holiday, too?"

"Yes." Konstantin had to remind himself which way to nod his head. Everything was so backward here.

"We've been so lucky with the weather, haven't we? Only last week it was raining cats and dogs."

"Really?" Konstantin replied. What was it with the English and the weather?

"Oh, yeah, torrential, I'd say. Right?" The man turned to his friend for confirmation and received only a startled nod. He turned back to the Russian. "Have you been down to the beach yet?"

"No, we only just arrived. Is the beach good?"

"One of the best in Britain," the man replied enthusiastically. Then he glanced around, dropping his voice, "Not that it's got that much competition."

Konstantin smiled. "Perhaps."

"So, are you staying out here long?"

"A few days."

"Camping?"

"No, we have a cottage a little way up the road."

"Oh, lovely," the man said. "How are you finding it?"

"It is very pleasant."

"That's good. Where's your accent from if you don't mind me asking?"

Konstantin looked up. "I was born in… Poland."

"Really?" The young man smiled. "So why did you decide to come all the way out here on holiday?"

"One of my cousins came here once. I have family in England, you see."

"Whereabouts?"

"In the north. I cannot remember the place at the moment, but it is a very small town."

"My friend and I came down to do some fishing. Apparently the sea-fishing out here is excellent."

"Good luck."

"Thanks. Well, we'd best be off. Nice meeting you."

Konstantin smiled and nodded, as the two men excused themselves.

Outside the bar, Doyle smacked his partner on the back of the head.

"Hey!" Bodie protested. "What was that for?"

"What was all that? What if he'd recognised us?"

"Yeah, right. If he'd recognised us, he wouldn't have sat next to us, would he?"

Doyle furrowed his brow. "All right, no, but still!"

"Yeah, Doyle. Sure. Like you weren't trying not to laugh."

"And what about our non-contact order?"

"I haven't made contact with our man, have I? The Cow didn't mention his mate."

Doyle rolled his eyes and wandered across the garden towards the road. "Well,_ I _wonder what his mate's up to."

"We'd better find out," Bodie said, his heart sinking. "Okay, who wants blondie?"

"You take him. I'm off to see our good friend the Olympic figure-skater."

"Fine," Bodie said. "See you later."

"Yeah, okay." Doyle waved over his shoulder and walked off towards the cottage.

Bodie eyed the pub and went back inside.

**Chapter Three: Vodka ****Détente**

Konstantin looked up and found the friendly, dark-haired man seated alone at the end of the bar. "You have returned?"

Bodie glanced over and shrugged. "Me mate found himself a girl. Decided to be a gentleman and excuse myself."

"Your friend must be a very lucky man to meet a girl so quickly."

"Yeah, well," Bodie shifted to sit beside Konstantin again. "He met her earlier on. And then she was just going out as we were walking back, so..."

"Ah! My friend, he is like this also," Konstantin sighed. "He is lucky."

"Want another drink?"

The Russian glanced over. "Thank you, my friend."

Bodie ordered another round of drinks. When the glasses arrived, he held his up for a toast. "To absent friends."

"Yes," Konstantin replied, clicking his glass against Bodie's.

"Vash zadorov'ye."

Konstantin looked startled.

Bodie smirked. "Not Polish."

"I…"

"Don't worry about it," Bodie said kindly. "I'm not prejudiced."

"How do you know Russian, my friend?"

"Ha! Well, I don't…. I learnt it off a film."

Konstantin laughed, "Very good, very good!"

"Thanks. So, come on. It's a long way to come for such a crap holiday."

The blond looked at his companion and then back at his drink. The alcohol was loosening his tongue and exaggerating his frustration, which had just about reached its limit. "I will tell you the truth, my friend: I have no idea why I am here."

"Got on the wrong plane, huh?"

Konstantin chuckled. "No. I, uh… my friend, he is a good friend. He works hard. We both work hard." The blond shrugged. "I thought perhaps to take some time off. Find some girls, drink… you know?"

"Yeah, I know," Bodie replied. "So, this wasn't exactly where you intended to go?"

"No," Konstantin said bitterly. "My friend decides he needs to do something – some important business – and he _needs_ me to come along."

"And you don't know what this business is?"

"Ha! No." Konstantin took a gulp of his drink. "That would be too easy. Instead, I must be strung along. He says, 'We are going to England!' And I, like a fool, follow him without question."

"I think I know how you feel."

"And, now, like your friend, he ignores me for his _Anna Karenina_. This is his _business_? If so, then I am the brother of a monkey, as you say."

Bodie nodded solemnly. "Uh-huh."

"If he wanted to go on holiday… the place I found, that was not good enough? But his business cannot wait, he says." Konstantin heaved an aggravated sigh. "So I must hang around like the dog, hmm? Come when he whistles and wag my tail…" He took another swallow, finishing his drink.

Bodie snickered. "Here, let me buy you another."

"No, no. This is my turn." The Russian gestured the barkeeper to come over. "Another of the same again."

The man silently served the drinks and walked away, as Konstantin pushed Bodie's glass towards him.

"Tell me your name, friend."

"Will," Bodie replied. "And you?"

"Konstantin… But keep it quiet, hmm?"

"Sure thing."

"You know, my government would kill me for talking like this to a Westerner at home," Konstantin said sadly.

"I've heard about stuff like that."

"It is hard to be a good communist." Konstantin shook his head. "Sometimes it is too hard."

Bodie took a long drink. "I think, my friend, we need to increase the proof."

"Pardon?"

Bodie tipped his glass slightly. "Something a little stronger is in order."

"Ah… yes, yes."

Bodie waved the barkeeper back. "Two shots of vodka over here. Ta."

x x x

Doyle could hear his partner singing long before Bodie reached the caravan. He rolled his eyes and yanked the door open angrily. Bodie pushed him aside and stumbled over the threshold, still crooning at full volume.

"Will you be quiet? You'll get us thrown out!"

Bodie smirked. "And? Like either of us wants to be here anyway."

"We're on a case, mate, in case you've forgotten."

"Bollocks to the case. This isn't a case; this is a ruse," Bodie giggled moronically. "Ruse, ruse, ruse…"

"You were supposed to be watching the Russian agent."

"Nope!" Bodie slurred. "Not an agent, but a good bloke, a decent bloke…"

"Go to bed, Bodie. You're pissed."

"Correct. A prize for you." Bodie poked his partner in the chest. "_You _can have a prize off the top shelf."

Doyle batted the hand away. "What do you think you're doing? Trying to get yourself killed?"

"Oh, like anybody'd care," Bodie said sharply.

"What do you mean by that?"

"What do I mean?" Bodie laughed bitterly. "That's just it though, innit? You have absolutely no idea at all…"

"Look, it's impossible talking to you like this."

"Yeah, sure, whatever. It's not like what I think's important anyway." Bodie lurched past him to the bench seats. "Just wake me up when you've got some orders for me."

Doyle grabbed his partner by the shoulders and spun him round, making him stumble.

"Hey, hey!" Bodie protested. "What're you doing?"

"I want to know what the hell you mean by that."

Bodie fell silent, staring at Doyle. He scowled and yanked his arm from his friend's grip. "Don't you worry 'bout me, mate," he spat, "It's just ol' Bodie, after all. No matter how many times you kick 'im. He'll always come back around. S'not like he can feel like real people anyway." He turned back around and half-collapsed onto one of the seats. "Just some… bloody… something… Oh, I don't know."

"Bodie…" Doyle reached out a hand, but it was angrily swatted away.

"Leave me alone! Go and do whatever the hell it is you do, and leave me be. I'm sick of it; I'm bloody sick of it."

"Sick of _what_, exactly?"

"Dunno… Sick of being strung along, of being the last one to know! Sick of being the soddin' perpetual tagalong in somebody else's plans. Don't worry about me… What I want doesn't bloody count anyway."

Bodie had obviously well surpassed his usual alcohol intake. Generally, if he was drinking very much, Doyle was right there with him, matching him glass for glass. This time, however, Doyle was sober, and his partner's bitter words stung.

"Is that really how you feel?"

"Who cares how I feel? Nobody. I'm just the crazy bloke who hangs about… no feelings for me."

"Bodie…"

"No, stop it! Jus' stop it!" Bodie stood up angrily but immediately regretted it. His vision swirled, and he pitched forwards, only to be caught by his partner.

"All right, Bodie," Doyle sighed. "You've had far too much to drink."

"Who gives a damn?" Bodie muttered darkly. He suddenly clasped his hand over his mouth and dashed for the small bathroom, where he proceeded be violently sick.

Doyle edged in after him and held his friend up with one hand while rubbing his back sympathetically with the other. "Jesus, Bodie. How much _did_ you have to drink?"

"Lots," Bodie moaned piteously.

"You great stupid berk! Why?"

"Seemed like the right thing to do," Bodie said, sitting up, so he was leaning slightly against Doyle. He looked at his partner glassy-eyed. "If there was a war, and I had the only way out… I'd take you with me, y'know?"

Doyle frowned. "Huh?"

"If I had the only way out… I'd bring you with me."

"Thanks?" Doyle said, although he was terribly confused.

Bodie hung his head. "Shouldn't you be pissed off?"

"Why?"

"I was shouting… I don't remember."

"Yeah, well. I have the patience of a saint."

Bodie snorted. "Whatever."

"What did you mean earlier, when you said your opinions didn't matter?"

Bodie concentrated on breathing for a moment, then answered slowly, "How come I'm always the last to know, eh? Why am I the only one who's never allowed to know what's going on?"

Doyle considered the question. "I'm not sure I follow you."

"It doesn't matter," Bodie sighed. "I'm pissed."

"I can tell," Doyle said. "They can smell your breath back in London."

"He just wanted someone to talk to."

"Who did?"

"The Russian." Bodie was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. "He didn't understand because…. I think the other bloke just wanted to protect him."

"Protect him from what?"

Bodie suddenly went limp, and Doyle just managed to catch him before he took his teeth out on the toilet bowl. Doyle stood and hauled his unconscious partner to his feet, cursing him soundly. With a sigh, he dumped Bodie in the bedroom to sleep it off. Then, he went to prepare the bed in the main room for himself.

**Chapter Four: Defective Detection**

Doyle had resolved to have no sympathy for his partner, but when he saw the pitiful figure that emerged from the bedroom the next morning he found his resolve breaking down. "It lives," he announced, making Bodie wince. "How's the head?"

Bodie scowled and poured himself a glass of water.

"Now, do you mind telling me what last night was about?"

"Last night?" Bodie asked. "I don't even remember where I am."

"Lost half your life to the alcohol haze?"

"Huh, I wish. What time is it?"

"Just gone ten," Doyle replied. "You were drinking with the blond Russian."

Bodie frowned. "I… was?" He sipped his water gingerly. "Why?"

"How the hell would I know? I was watching Anatoly."

"Oh… That sounds like a bad plan." Bodie rubbed his head. "What happened?"

"Well, you switched between rambling about saving me from a war and claiming you were underappreciated."

Bodie shook his head. "I don't know. My head hurts."

"You said Anatoly was trying to protect that blond bloke from something?"

Bodie sighed and gulped the rest of the water before pouring himself another glass. "Protecting him?"

"Well, you _were_ the one who was talking to him for hours." Doyle sighed. "Look, it doesn't matter. You didn't get killed; you didn't get me killed. So, let's just forget it happened."

Bodie pushed past his partner and slumped onto one of the bench seats. "Was I shouting?"

"Yeah, just a little."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Doyle sat down opposite Bodie. "So what do you want to do next?"

"Crawl into a hole and die?"

Doyle chuckled. "About Anatoly and his friend?"

"Konstantin," Bodie said suddenly. "That's the bugger."

"The blond?"

"Yeah."

"Do you remember anything he said?"

Bodie lay back, frowning at the ceiling. "Konstantin suggested a holiday, and Anatoly said he had to work. But… then he brought them both here. That's why Konstantin is pissed off: because Anatoly hasn't done any work yet."

"Well, so why did Konstantin come, then? He could've gone on holiday on his own."

"I dunno. Because they're mates?" Bodie closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "The reason he wanted a holiday in the first place was because he thought Anatoly was working too hard. Going by himself… that would've defeated the whole object."

"And you're sure it wasn't for the fishing?" Doyle ventured, thinking about their conversation from the night before.

"Who the hell goes anywhere for the fishing?" Bodie replied indignantly. "Anatoly just said, 'We're going to England,' and he expected Konstantin to follow, y'know? And he did – without a single question. But now his mate's ignoring him in favour of _Anna Karenina _and not doing any of this 'important' work."

"I thought you liked fishing," Doyle said mildly, standing up and stepping into the kitchen area.

"Well, I do. But it's not much fun on your own, is it? Might as well buy some goldfish and sit next to the bath. Why are you so preoccupied with fishing?"

"Just curious," Doyle said. "Want a cup of tea?"

"Why are you being nice? Shouldn't you be pissed off?"

"Why?"

"Well, I roll in drunk at some point, late probably. I distinctly remember shouting at you, and I think I may have even thrown up."

"Yeah, well, maybe I feel sorry for you."

"What did I say?"

"Last night?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing unusual."

"Huh. So why the pity?"

"Because you look like you've just crawled out of the Black Lagoon," Doyle chuckled. "Don't worry. I'll probably be twice as angry at you when the KGB strike team arrive."

"I'm not thick, Doyle," Bodie said, throwing his arm over his eyes. "I didn't tell him anything. I just listened."

"Except you were so drunk you couldn't remember what he said? Brilliant."

Bodie sucked in a deep breath. "He didn't _have_ anything to say. He has no more idea why he's here than we do."

"Eh? I thought you couldn't remember."

"Well, it's coming back to me. Besides, it was only after the third that things started to get fuzzy."

"You're not usually that light-weight. Three beers?"

"Three shots," Bodie corrected, "on top of two lagers."

"Oh."

"Or three lagers," Bodie speculated, "and maybe four shots."

"Oh, mate." Doyle replied. "You went for it, didn't you?"

Bodie shrugged. "I had to, to keep up with the Russian. I think he was trying to drown his sorrows."

A light knock on the caravan door startled both partners, and a moment passed before Doyle went to answer it. When he did, he froze in shock in the doorway.

"Good morning," Anatoly said pleasantly. "May I come in?"

Doyle swallowed and stepped back. "Uh, how can we help you?"

Anatoly sighed. "I know who you are, my friend, as much as you know who I am."

Bodie sat upright and shrugged helplessly. Doyle let Anatoly in.

"I admit that you are not the most subtle agents I have ever met," Anatoly said, settling down on the bench seat opposite Bodie. He nodded politely at the hung-over CI5 man. "But apparently you drink like a Russian."

"Ta," Bodie replied.

"My friend is still sleeping off the effects. Ah, it is a shame he didn't ask me to come along. I enjoy a good drink."

"So, what brings you here?" Doyle asked suspiciously.

"I have come to you with a confession… and a request," Anatoly hesitated. "I don't know how much Konstantin told you, but he doesn't know that much. I am afraid I had to lie to him to bring him here."

"You're defecting!" Bodie said suddenly, as the conversation from the night before finally came together in his head. "But how do you know _he _wants to go?"

"He has no loyalty to the government – no friends, no family ties. He stays there because of me. He would never go alone, because he is afraid," Anatoly chuckled. "But the Americans are helping us tonight. We will be… _travelling_ in the horsebox of a young lady nearby."

"So why come to us?" Doyle asked. "Why not just disappear?"

The Russian looked up. "I cannot simply 'disappear.' The KGB would hunt me for the rest of my life. But, _perhaps_, if the British agents who were following us reported that we were dead, killed on an assignment gone wrong… perhaps, then, they might leave us be."

"Why would they believe us?"

"Because you have a strict non-contact order, yes? Why would you lie to your own government?"

The two agents exchanged a glance.

"And how do we know you're telling the truth?" Doyle asked.

"Just ask your friend here," Anatoly said, gesturing at Bodie with an amused grin. "Konstantin is a terrible drunk. He cannot stop talking."

"Yeah. Well, I'm not sure he's a very good witness," Doyle mumbled, regarding his dishevelled partner.

"Listen. A boat will capsize at sea later this morning. Everyone on board will be lost, Konstantin and myself included. You will say you saw us get on, no?" Anatoly begged the two agents. "Please. What do you have to lose? Ask the American girl if you do not believe me."

"All right," Bodie replied for both himself and Doyle, earning a shocked frown from his partner.

"You will?" Anatoly looked up hopefully.

Doyle sighed, "Yeah."

The Russian stood up. "Thank you. Thank you, my friends." He shook the British agents' hands enthusiastically. "You have saved my life and the life of my friend. I cannot tell you how grateful I am."

"One question," Doyle said. "Why bring Konstantin? Why not just go alone?"

Anatoly's smile softened. "Konstantin is my closest friend. He has been like a brother to me. I would not leave him to face my government's anger if they found out I had defected." He glanced from one partner to the other. "Would you willingly leave your brother behind, knowing he would be tortured and killed because of you… or would you try to save him?" He didn't wait for Doyle's reply. "You already know your answer, my friend. I can see it in your eyes." He nodded at them both. "Thank you."

Bodie slumped back onto the seat, flung his arm over his eyes, and listened silently as Anatoly drove away.

Doyle leant casually against the counter, looking out the window. After a few minutes, he turned back towards the pitiful lump of scruffy, unshaven partner sprawled carelessly across the bench. "Was that what you were trying to tell me last night?" he asked. "About having the only way out and taking me with you?"

Bodie didn't answer, and Doyle quickly realised he was already fast asleep.

"You idiot," Doyle said softly, allowing an affectionate smile to creep over his face. Then, "BODIE!" he snapped.

Bodie awoke with a jolt, tipping off the edge of the cushion to land in the space between the seats with a caravan-rattling thump. He struggled to his feet and scowled blearily at his partner. "What did you do that for?"

Doyle grinned innocently. "Why don't you sleep in the actual bedroom this time?"

Bodie considered the question for a moment, shrugged and then shuffled past his partner into the bedroom, letting the door fall shut behind him. Laughing silently, Doyle rolled his eyes and went to make himself a cup of tea.

**Epilogue**

Cowley was reading the report his top agents had handed in two days after their leave had ended, his brow crinkling as his gaze swept down the page. "So… the two Russians are dead?"

"Yes, sir. There was nothing could be done," Bodie said.

A knowing smile crept across Cowley's face. "Well, we may never know why they were there, but at least we won't have to worry about them anymore."

"Did they find any bodies, sir?" Bodie asked. He knew his partner still felt uncomfortable that a boat _had_ gone down as expected. Moreover, neither agent was certain whether that event really had been staged or was an act of sabotage.

"No," Cowley said, "and they're unlikely to. The current would have swept them well out to sea."

"I bet the KGB aren't happy," Doyle added.

"No, but there's not much they can do," the controller agreed. "Oh, and by the way…" He reached into his drawer and pulled out a postcard. "You received this."

Doyle leant forwards and took the card. On the front was a picture of the Statue of Liberty, and on the back was a brief message in neat cursive. "Greetings from America. It seems we have found Liberty at last!" he read out loud.

"Any idea who it's from?" Cowley asked.

"None at all, sir," Doyle said. He handed the card to Bodie, who smiled.

"Aye, well, take it with you when you leave, then. You'll have a new assignment this afternoon." Cowley dismissed his agents with a wave of his hand. They left quickly, closing the door behind them.

He picked up the phone and dialled. "Russian consulate, please. Ah, Sergei? About that report you requested…"

**The end**


End file.
